One Last Visit
by Katekateseveruskate
Summary: It's been three years since John Watson watched his best friend, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, fall to his death. He's still haunted by the memories, of Sherlock's death, of the old flat, and Sherlock himself. When his love, Mary, convinces him to visit Baker Street, how will the nightmares of his past affect him when he returns to 221B, one last time?


It had been snowing hard all morning, and well into the afternoon. John thought about calling it off, but Mrs. Hudson was so excited for him to come visit. He hadn't been anywhere near Baker Street since he'd moved three years ago. The pain of losing his best friend had been too much. He'd called up Harriet, even though he hated the idea, packed up, and moved in with his sister. A couple of months later, he met an amazing girl, Mary, her name was. She'd lost her sister when she was 15. She knew what kind of pain John was going through. She made him better. John loved her with all his heart.

"John?" Mary said, sitting in the chair across from his. Sherlock's old chair. John had been staring out the window, deep in thought when she'd disturbed him.

"Yes, honey?"

"I think you're ready." John felt his stomach drop. He knew exactly what she meant. His stomach began to twist and turn and he started to sweat. He felt the hot tears well up, his face grew warmer.

"No."

"John-"

"Mary, I'm not going back to that flat, damn it!" John yelled angrily. "It's too much! It's," he took a deep breath. "I can't just go back. You don't understand. I think of him... everyday. Going back will put me back exactly where I was three years ago."

"But it could help you-"

"I'm not going back to my therapist, drunk as a skunk and suicidal. I'm not going to do that." Mary sat silently for a moment, and stared down at her feet. She played with a lose thread on the armrest absentmindedly as she thought.

"... I want to meet Mrs. Holston."

"Who?"

"Mrs. Holston. Your old landlady."

"Hudson. Why?"

"I've never met her, and, you've always spoke of her so fondly. She seems like a nice woman. Maybe you could talk to her?"

"I haven't spoke to Mrs. Hudson in three years. I don't even know if she's still alive."

"John!"

"Alright! Alright. Fine. We'll go to Baker Street, if it'll help you sleep at night. But just to see Mrs. Hudson. I'm not going into that flat."

"I never said you had to."

"Well... good then."

Mary had somehow tracked Mrs. Hudson down already, and pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket and handed it to John. There was no way he could refuse her; she had one of those faces where you feel terrible letting them down, even if it's not something you want to do. She was in no way manipulative, but seeing her eyes a little duller than how vibrant they normally were just made you want to cry.

"Call her and tell her we plan on dropping by, will you?"

"Alright."

John stepped out of the cab and took a deep breath. Mary climbed out onto the sidewalk and took his hand as John stared up at the window Sherlock had peered out of for so many hours on end years ago. He thought he saw a bit of movement upstairs. He hadn't realised someone new had moved in. But maybe it was just Mrs. Hudson, tidying up, like she always had?

John looked at Mary and she nodded at his with a sweet smile. He stepped forward and knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened the door after a few seconds.

"John!" she exclaimed, hugging him. "I haven't seen you in ages, so wonderful! You haven't changed a bit! Oh, who's this?" she asked, looking over to Mary.

"Oh hello, I'm Mary! Mary Watson."

Mrs. Hudson's huge smile faded the slightest bit. "Oh... how lovely! How long have you two-"

"Almost two years now," John replied. "I knew she was the one for me after the first date."

"That's wonderful, dearie. Now come on, lets get you out of this snow! It's coming down hard now!" John stepped inside with Mary right behind him, and took off her coat for her and held it along with his.

"Oh, let me get those for you, John," Mrs. Hudson said, hurrying to take the coats.

"I'll come with you," Mary added. "John has had the most wonderful things about you, it's a pleasure..."

John heard their voices disappear down the hall towards Mrs. Hudson's door. He didn't know why he didn't follow at first, but he stood in the hall a moment long and leaned against the wall, thinking. It wasn't as painful as he'd thought. Having Mary and Mrs. Hudson here, with him, he was okay. But now they had walked away, and he was having a moment to think.

He thought about Sherlock, big surprise. He thought about waking up and wandering into the kitchen, only to find Sherlock exactly how he was the night before, peering into his microscope, hands delicately focusing the knobs. He thought about the way he turned his collar up against the wind, partially to block the cold, mostly just to look mysterious and cool, though he'd never admit it. He thought about Sherlock's violin, how he used to play it as he was deep in thought. He'd stop suddenly, stare out the window, still as a statue, and then shake his head and play again.

Sherlock played so beautifully. The way he would apply rosin to the bow so tediously and delicately, right before swinging the instrument up to his chin, and playing one long, resonating, beautiful note after another. John could almost hear God Save The Queen, the bow gliding across the strings gloriously. How badly he wished to hear Sherlock play again. He shook his head, trying to get the sound of the violin out of his head. It kept on going. After a moment, it switched to Sonata No. 1 by Bach. One of Sherlock's favourites.

"Oh my god," John whispered. Immediately whirling around, he bounded up the stares in three steps, stopping right outside the door to his old flat. He froze, and listened silently for a moment. His breathing became fast and jagged; he felt like he was going to faint. He rested his hand on the doorknob, and, taking one last deep breath, flung the door open. He stepped into the doorway and he could have sworn his heart stopped.

There he was, standing at the very same window he always stood at, staring out the window, bow moving along the strings effortlessly. John stared incredulously. After a moment, he lowered the bow and violin, still holding it by the neck. He spun around on his heel, locking eyes with John for the first time in three years.

_"Hello, John."_


End file.
